de marseille: 9:45pm
Sorry for the sorry lack of updates the past few days–I’ve been in heaven, and as those of you who have been before can attest, email and blogging is the last thing on your mind. T. and I went to Marseille, in the south of France, to stay with some winery folks she met through her dad, who works as a wine importer. We caught a high speed train out of Paris Friday afternoon, travelled 300 km per hour south to the coast. After a little confusion (which involved me changing my shoes on the steps of the train station while T. fended off street people), her friends Antoine et Sylvie picked us up and took us for a cous cous dinner.

J’etudie francais? Oui?
It was apparent right off the bat that these were incredibly sweet, very funny people, and that their English wasn’t great. So, I dove in head-first with my franco-spanglish. What I lacked in vocabulary I made up for with enthusiasm, self-deprication, and my usual slightly over the top cartoon like facial expressions. Naturally I was fucking up left and right (including addressing a dog with the très formal “vous” conjugation and constantly saying “We have!” instead of “Let’s go!”), and spoke with a perpetual question mark, but these people were very patient and fun loving and transformed guessing what I was trying to say into a game show, hitting their imaginary buzzers when they thought they understood:

me: “Ma petit copain et moi? Nous avon duex animals, oui? Ils sont un petit, blanch, et avec petit … um, whiskers? [imitates rat face]”
antoine: “Un petit chien?” [a little dog]
me: “Non…utilize dans l’experiments de biologie?”
sylvie: “Un rat?” [prounounced "rah," with a french R]
me: “OUI!!”
sylvie: “ding ding ding ding!!”

It was pretty funny, but everyone insisted that my french improved dramatically as the weekend went on, which is good since, at one point on Friday night I mangled a word so badly (I said “une frere,” which is like saying a brother, but feminine), that Sylvie laughed “That’s not french!”

Our trip en la voiture to Antoine’s house included a quick stop at la plage…I’d never touched an ocean besides the Pacific before! What a sheltered little thing I am. The four of us were up until late Friday night, laughing and smoking and getting to eachother.

En Paradise
T. and I slept in Saturday morning, and awoke to find Antoine–wearing his personalized apron–had made fresh orange juice and made a quick drive for fresh croissants et pain. We ate in the perfect late morning sun on his veranda, over-looking the rolling hills of southern french wine country and watching Antoine’s cat, Minionne (”cute” in french) play in the yard. I briefly met Pasqual, Antoine’s neighbor who reminded me of a young, humble, very funny, very French Brad Pitt, and then everyone walked up the hill for an olive oil testing at the winery.

Moi, I stayed at Antoine’s. I sat in his hammock and wrote in my journal, enjoying the dappled sunlight and idylic breeze, snoozing until the neighborhood chien came and woke me up with his wet black nose. T. came to fetch me later in the afternoon for lunch, and I was SO glad she did, because it turns out the olive oil testing event was a slow food celebration. Slowfood is the international anti-fastfood movement, all about organic foods from small farms, prepared with much love and, as the name implies, time.

And so I spent all of Saturday afternoon eating organic food next to a winery in on a hill in France. It was amazing, the sort of “genuine experiences” that snooty travel magazines wish they could find but look for at expensive motels. Granted, my communication was limited, but the food, and wine, and sun, and smiles…it was heaven. Pure heaven. Afterwards, we walked back to Antoine’s house and all took a nap.

Desolet, j’ai un malade. Arrete pour moi?
The big plan that night was to go dancing. Antoine, Sylvie, Pasqual, T., and I woke up with wine, laughed over Michael Jackson, and danced on the veranda. We all got all dressed up, and left the house excited and flushed with anticipation.

T. and Pasqual and I were squeezed in the back of Antoine’s Citroen, and within just a few twisty kilometers of Antoine’s house, I was exceptionally nauseus. No: really REALLY sick feeling. I hate disrupting fun, so I stayed quiet until I was totally sure my stomach really meant business, then I asked T. if she could ask Sylvie if I could sit in front. “I am auto disease,” I meakly offered as explation.

So, we stopped and I might have barfed right then except for all our happy french friends surrounded me and kept smiling and offering jokes and I just couldn’t yak in front of all those happy people! Know this about me: I have a pride issue with vomitting. It’s the most awful thing I can imagine doing in front of people. Pissing your pants is funny. Tossing your cookies is an admission of defeat, vulnerability, and disgustingness.

After a few minutes, I convinced myself I was ok. Back in the car we went, me in front this time. But, after only one kilometer I was literally choking vomit back (ever done that? barf and swallow, barf and swallow? I’m a master, but even this was to much for me) and I finally squeaked out “Antoine? Arrete pour moi?” He stopped, I puked, it was awful.

I’ll spare you the whole awful story, but suffice to say it included me laying in an orchard by the road trying to keep my shit together while T. taught Pasqual Bainbridge High School cheers which they performed for me in an attempt to make me feel better. The night ended with us all driving back to chez Antoine, me passing out, and everyone else being sad about not going dancing. It sucked. I ruined everyone’s night.

…Especially mine! (to be continued)

The Med
Sunday made up for Saturday night. I woke feeling relatively ok (although I’m STILL a tiny bit queasy, even today!), and after breakfast the five of us (we were quite a great team!) headed to the beach. UH. MAH. GAH. I’ve never seen sea water that wasn’t green and very cold, so the Mediterranean was an amazing experience. T. and I were supposed to be heading back to Paris that afternoon, but the sun and surf and Antoine, Sylive, and Pasqual convinced us to stay an extra night.

And I’m SO glad we did! We stayed dans la plage until I got sunburned, nous nagons until I was pruney, and basically just enjoyed the warmth and utopian breeze of the Mediterranean. Can I ask again: WHO’S LIFE IS THIS?! As I stood waste deep in warm, clear blue water, surrounded by children laughing in another language I was in sheer delightful heaven. WAHOO!!

The evening was spent sleeping (I need lots of naps) and cooking — Antoine taught me to make crepes, and even let me wear his special apron! What an honor!! T. and I taught Pasqual West Coast-isms like “duuuuuuude” (that one’s for YOU, Megasoul) and “hella” and “like.” Then I taught him how us hippies say hi and bye in the US. None of this cheek kissing stuff (although I don’t mind that, especially with Brad Pitt doppelgangers), gimme a big ol HUG!!

It was great, and T. and I were very sad to leave today. Now we are back in Paris. Only two full days left, too! EEK!

And in other news, I miss my boyfriend. This summer in New York is going to be hard without Andreas. Sniffle. But I’ll keep myself going with dreams of us moving to the south of france together.